


in turn

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8270791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: Nikandros spanks Laurent.





	

Now that it was actually happening, Nikandros did not feel prepared.

He had done this before, of course. Those who ruled at the palace in Ios or in the more secure territories might not have, where slaves were better trained from an early age; for Damen the concept of a slave even wanting to be disobedient would never have been so much as a passing thought. But upon Nikandros had fallen the task of controlling the newly regained territories. 

He had not been alone in this; he had, after all, been very young to have such a position. But with the help of Makedon and of other officials appointed in the area, they had gotten on with the task of re-imposing Akielon culture onto a regretfully Veretianised population. So slaves had to be taken and trained in a province that had struck aside the tradition, and though of course training was first carried out by those appointed from the court and also from the other provinces, at times it fell upon the lords of Delpha to administer appropriate correction. 

This was in some sense, an untried experience. Some three hundred years before, training had grown lax in the Isthima, following an outbreak and importations from Patras, and a revolt that was duly quenched had, nevertheless, to be punished. But while the perpetrators were done away with in the traditional manner, the remaining slaves had to take punishment that would remind them of their place. So too did the Delphan slaves who remembered at times that in another country they might have been citizens. 

But it was impossible, regardless of his actions, to take the whip to the Prince of Vere.

And yet Nikandros had seen Damen’s back. He had seen the gold at his wrist. The marks the Veretians had left would never fully heal. Always they would remain and always he would look at his king, and at the friend he had known from childhood, and feel himself struck with the same horror, that same boiling of the blood that made him rage.

And yet the campaign demanded, and his King demanded, co-operation. If not forgiveness, which Damen had already granted, as if deeds like that could be expunged from their relations. But Nikandros could not forgive.

But it seemed like he could have some small measure of justice that was too insufficient to even merit the term, and yet enough to tilt the balance down by a breath. The Prince of Vere was laid across his lap, that elaborate clothing pushed down. His skin was very pale.

Nikandros was not sure he could do this. It struck him that he had been overconfident: it was not like reminding a recalcitrant slave of his position at all. His clothing stayed halfway down his legs, almost framing his buttocks. Those long and lovely boots were still on. 

He thought of Damen being forced down to kiss the leather, and felt the stirrings of anger. His hand came down sharp against exposed skin. 

He did not cry out, but only twitched a little against Nikandros’ knees. He hit him again, on the other side this time, then a few more times, to little more effect.

There was something unnatural about his breathing. Nikandros paused. It was rather regular. That was what he was concentrating on: the breathing and the containment of all sound. 

It would not do. To have Laurent do that was to feel like the Prince of Vere was still, half-undressed and bent over, somehow in control. He ran his hand over Laurent’s spine, over the clothes, then over the curve of his buttocks. The skin there was warm now, but still soft. Unlike him, Nikandros could not leave welts. 

But he could make that pale skin darken. With a few more hits, the skin beneath his hand was turning a splotchy pink. It was not enough. 

Outside the wind was gaining strength. They could hear it a little even in the tent; the guards outside might well be shivering. The Akielon flags would be flapping in the wind, a familiar and welcome red. To see it before him like this might feel like triumph on such bare skin. Besides, they were as ever to ride on tomorrow, and he wanted the Prince of Vere to feel that, however thick and elaborate his clothes might be. 

He smacked him again, harder, and then, a little lower, where he knew he could not give many strikes. A breath escaped Laurent. He chased it to the other side, fast and hard, not wanting to give him the space and time to catch his breath and bring it back under firm control. 

Usually he made them count. It kept them focused on the task and kept them waiting for it. Then, sometimes, depending on the incident, he would have them relate each blow to their own actions: I deserve this because I…. But he had had enough of Laurent’s voice. All the time in their strategic discussions, with Makedon, that awful voice that would give them nothing in that lofty tone, or worse, when he would smile and remind them all of what Damen had endured. It would be nice to hear it break in pain, break the illusion of untouchability forever, and then at least Nikandros would have this as he endured the war sessions and the loss of their land. But it might push him too far, and besides, he was almost afraid of what Laurent might say, even now. 

His breaths were coming raggedly now. His arse was pink. Nikandros paused. When next he touched him, it was softly, rubbing circles into that flushed skin, over the spots that were the most reddened, since as his blows fell they at times overlapped. Laurent’s breathing was the loudest sound in the tent.

He let his nails drag a little over the skin and heard him gasp. 

They were so positioned that Nikandros could feel every movement against his skin. He was moving now with every blow, a twitch that was in itself very slight but which, from one who gave the overall impression of such control, felt like a triumph. 

He hit him again, hard and sharp over tender spots, and had the reward of having Laurent jerk against him, his legs kicking out a little at the pain. It had the effect of concealing the unrestrained gasp at the entrance, though the sudden cold rush of air could not be concealed. 

It was one of the slaves, though Laurent, his head bent and his hair falling forward, could not have seen that. He might even have thought it was Damianos. Nikandros stroked from his target up his spine to the back of his head. The fabric, though thick, was soft to the touch. Patterns that could not be seen when facing the Prince across a map-spread table were revealed to his skin. 

He pressed down slightly to prevent Laurent from looking up, and was met with little resistance. Perhaps he did not wish to look, then, and know without doubt that he too was seen. 

It might have been pleasing to see his face, to have had a mirror positioned so that that curtain of hair did not fall forward and obscure whether Laurent’s face was just as flushed, or his eyes wet. Even Veretians could not lie in all they did. There must be some movement across his face at the impact of the blow, and that too would have been something to remember, to watch as his hand came down again and again.

But then perhaps Laurent would have seen also, and had the forewarning to brace for every blow. They must hurt him terribly by now. Nikandros smoothed his hand over that inflamed skin. Not many more then, or he would break the skin. 

Normally at this time he might slip a hand beneath them, to touch a woman’s breasts, mixing pain and pleasure that was half humiliation, then at the end of it all to push them down to their knees to release the pent up pressure, and then to turn them over and take his pleasure when they were at their most sensitive. 

It could not be done, of course, even were Damen here. But because it could not, he allowed himself to imagine that – but it was impossible to contemplate so cruel a mouth being used thus. But perhaps Damen… oh, but even to watch him bent before Damen in submission, his buttocks so reddened, was a thought. 

But even her arrival seemed to have broken something in Laurent. His hands, hanging down, were clenched into fists. That self-control seemed to have been bled out of him, and he took it with what for him seemed almost a lack of tension. Nikandros allowed himself a few more. This was what he had wanted when they had made their agreement.

The slave-girl was still there. Her head was bent as required, but he caught her flickering eyes. She must know what it was like; she must know who the Prince was. 

As he hit him, her colour rose. To see him like this must have been breaking open her mind. She was, Nikandros recalled, from Delpha. In another life, when she had been just a young girl, he would have been her Prince too. 

And now she was seeing him brought down low as Vere had been those years ago, as much a mark of Akielon overlordship as the cuff hidden beneath the ruffles at the Prince’s wrist. 

He let Laurent catch his breath. At this point even his last few light taps were a strain on that delicate skin. Nikandros smoothed his hand around burning flesh, squeezing, and he was sensitive to that too. He touched him as if it were as much his right as when he would touch her.

With a few circles meant to soothe on his back, it was over. Laurent shifted himself off, his leg brushing Nikandros’ knee. There were splotches of pink across his cheeks, and he was blinking more frequently than normal as he smoothed his hair back into place and tied himself up again.

The slave girl went into the fullest prostration before him. He passed her without acknowledgment. 

Nikandros, for his part, acknowledged her in all the ways one did a slave, substituting one foreign-born for another.


End file.
